


Baby I'm Yours

by StormDancer



Series: Not Your Baby [2]
Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Bottom Zayn, Established Relationship, Frat Boy Harry, Hipster Zayn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 20:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5884345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it's been two months too long, and the walls of Zayn's apartment are probably too thin for this</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby I'm Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Just a coda to Baby Be Mine that got a bit out of hand! I'd wanted to think about Harry's POV a little, so this was fun to explore. True to form with these two, it ended up being mostly sex. I'm not sure it'll make sense if you haven't read Baby Be Mine. Enjoy!

Harry shows up with a bottle of vodka. It’s pretty decent vodka too, Niall had approved it and everything, so he’s not worried. He’s not worried about anything. He’s just a little wary, as he steps over the threshold a girl with dreads and a nose ring let him in.

It’s not that he’s never been in Zayn’s space before. They’d spent some nights at Zayn’s apartment in college, though more at the house, because there was more room there. But this isn’t a college apartment, one step up from a dorm. This is Zayn’s new apartment, for starting his real life, and it is Harry’s first time in there.

He runs a hand through his hair, tugs on his necklace. He’s not nervous. It’s been two months since he properly saw his boyfriend, but he’s not nervous. He’s just aware that people are looking at him, because he’s wearing his Delta Chi hat and probably stands out like a sore thumb. Or maybe no one’s looking, and he’s making it up, but either way he definitely doesn’t know anyone here.

The main room is pretty small, but big for a two bedroom in the city, and crowded with people. They’ve got cups of what looks like wine in their hands, and the music is something Harry’s never heard before but sounds like the shit Zayn likes. Marta’s pictures are up on the walls,  some of the ones Harry saw when he went to her shows last year with Zayn, some new; there are some other black and white photos, and already the bookshelves are mostly filled. Harry spares them a smile. His nerdy boy.

He edges his way through the crowds, which give easily enough. He wants to find Zayn, and there isn’t enough room really that he should be this hard to find, but of course he’s being difficult. Instead, in the kitchen, Harry finds Marta and Claire, chatting with a purple-haired girl in an oversized flannel, but Marta breaks away when she sees him.

“Harry!” she grins, and pushes onto her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Hi! How was your summer?”

“It was good.” He grins at her, then nods at Claire. “Claire.”

“You’re late,” she tells him coolly. It’s been nearly nine months, and he’s still fairly certain Claire is waiting for him to show his true colors. Zayn muttered something about old habits when he tried to ask about it, but Harry figures he can only wait it out and hope to convince her otherwise, and hope Zayn doesn’t listen to her in the meantime.

“Plane was late,” he explains, smiling at her too. “And had to pick up the housewarming gift.” He holds out the vodka. Claire takes it, inspects it like she thinks he’s poisoned it. Harry doesn’t let himself sigh. He’ll make a good impression eventually. 

“Not bad,” she allows, then lets Marta snatch it out of her hand.

“Shit, this is the good stuff,” she says, reading the label. “You’ve already impressed him, you don’t have to buy him nice things to get into his pants.”

“Or get him drunk,” Claire adds.

“Nah, that’s the present for you two,” Harry tells them, winking. “So you can have some fun.” Marta giggles, and Claire smiles, as her girlfriend wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close. “I’ve got something else for Zayn.”

“Is it your dick?”

“Might be,” Harry agrees, and even Claire snorts. “Where is he?”

“I think he’s out back,” Claire nods at the doors on the other end of the kitchen, that open into the patio. Harry eyes it. He hadn’t thought Zayn would be waiting at the door, but he’d hoped he’d be easier to find—maybe looking for him.

“Yeah, I saw him go that—oh, hi Imani!” Marta interrupts herself, turning to a new girl who throws her arms around both Claire and Marta.

“Tell the plebeians in there that I’m right and everything’s a vagina,” she instructs Marta, who laughs. Harry’s pretty sure he will have nothing to contribute to that conversation, so he nods to them, and heads out towards the back patio.

It’s tiny too, and there isn’t any grass—they’d lucked into an apartment they could afford with any sort of outside space, Zayn had told Harry when he’d been complaining about apartment hunting over Skype, because even splitting the cost of the apartment three ways a Master’s student, an aspiring artist, and an editorial assistant don’t make any money—but it’s got enough space for a few wicker chairs, which are ignored right now for another group of people, who are talking—or maybe arguing, because voices are rising, and Harry can hear one above the rest.

He takes a second just to grin. It’s not hard to pick out Zayn, both because Harry thinks he’d know his back and neck anywhere, and because his voice is the loudest, his hands waving emphatically like he gets when he’s impassioned. God, Harry’s missed him. Missed him even when he’s being confrontational at parties.

Still grinning to himself, he angles so that he’ll come up behind Zayn. He’s still talking loudly enough that he doesn’t hear Harry coming, and everyone else must be so engrossed in the argument that they don’t point it out, so Harry’s pretty sure it’s a surprise when he slides his arms around Zayn’s waist and murmurs into his ear, “Chill out, baby. It’s a party.”

Zayn tenses for half a second, and Harry has the odd thought that maybe he’s going to get punched—then he’s turning in Harry’s arms, and Harry barely gets a second to glimpse his face before Zayn’s arms are around him and he has to brace himself from falling backwards as Zayn kisses him.

And fuck, Harry’s missed this—Skype sex is great but there is nothing like Zayn in his arms, his pouty lips and his tongue and his stubble and even his fucking eyelashes, how solid he is against Harry, pushing at him like he needs to be closer. Harry grabs his ass and pulls him in, then somehow up until he’s holding Zayn up so Zayn, apparently, can concentrate on kissing him senseless.

“Classy, Malik,” someone says, and Zayn lifts a hand to flip him off, not stopping kissing Harry.

“I can get some water,” someone else says, and that gets Zayn to lift his head, though his thighs are still clamped around Harry.

“It’s been two months, Chester. Fuck off.” His voice is almost a growl, the low hoarse thing it gets when he’s turned on, and Harry just wants to carry him off to the closest bed. Two months is two months too fucking long. There must be a bed somewhere nearby. Or a flat surface. Or a vertical one, Harry’s not picky.

“I’m sorry, did you want to warm your house and hang out with friends or fuck your jock boyfriend?” Someone else drawls, and Harry loosens his grip just in time for Zayn to drop back to his feet and spin around, glaring at the guy who spoke, some skinny guy with dirty dirty blonde hair and skinny jeans on skinnier legs.

“I’m sorry, were we disturbing you?” Zayn snaps. “Is it a problem with you if I want to kiss my boyfriend who I haven’t seen in two months? Or is it only a problem because he happens to enjoy an activity you don’t?”

“I’m just saying, he’s hot, we know that, but do you—”

“He has a name and ears,” Zayn spits back, and now his hackles are up. “And Harry is—”

If Harry was the sort of person who would tell people he told them so, he’d record this and play it back to Zayn, just so he could remember who he was six months ago. As it is, he just rolls his eyes, and slides his hands back onto Zayn’s hips.  And maybe stores this up to tease Zayn about later.

“Not worth it,” he tells Zayn, wrapping his hands around Zayn’s hips. Zayn stands his ground for a second, then he lets Harry turn him around, take a step back, away from the group.

“It’s always worth it,” Zayn retorts. Even in the dim light from the moon and the half-dead bare bulb mounted to the wall, his eyes are flashing, and his jaw is clearly set.

Still…it’s the first time Harry’s gotten a proper look at him yet, and for a second, he just wants to stare. Harry knows they’re good together, knows he’s hot and quite a catch, but sometimes, he gets that guy back there. He doesn’t know what Zayn is doing with him either, gorgeous, brilliant Zayn, who can be such a fucking asshole but cares so much about the people he loves. Who’s so beautiful, standing there in the half light in his ripped jeans and a tight black Henley, that if Harry were any good with words he’d want to, like, write a song about him or something. .

“Well, you could be arguing with him,” Harry points out, and slides a finger into the top rip of his jeans, rubbing against his thighs. Those are his fuck-me jeans, Harry knows, with their rips like an invitation to get under them. He was looking to get fucked tonight. Maybe he was looking forward to seeing Harry. “Or,” Harry goes on, dragging his eyes up to Zayn’s head. “You could tell me what the hell you did to your hair?”

Zayn laughs, and rubs a hand over the bleached strands. It definitely hadn’t been like that the last time Harry had Skyped with him, a week ago. Then, it had been growing out after Zayn had shaved it all off a few months ago, but it had definitely been black. Not this silver.

“I wanted a change,” he admits, and gives one of those quick looks up at Harry, the ones that make him seem vulnerable even though Harry knows perfectly well he’s the most dangerous person he knows. “Do you like it?”

“You’d look hot with green hair,” Harry informs him, because he would. Because Zayn would look hot everywhere, but especially in his bed. “And you look hot defending me.”

“Well, you’re so helpless,” Zayn agrees, and Harry can see him softening, the fight draining out of him as he relaxes. “Clearly you need me.”

“I do,” Harry tugs, and Zayn comes forward with it, his arms wrapping around his neck. “Missed you, baby.”

“Not your baby,” Zayn says, fond like it usually is these days, then kisses him again. It’s softer this time, not the frantic need but a gentle welcome, and Harry slides his hands up Zayn’s sides, relearning it, relearning how his lips feel. He pulls away too soon, though his hands stay twined in Harry’s hair. “Now. Take me to bed.”

“Really? But what about the party?” Harry manages to keep a straight face, as Zayn scowls. 

“Fuck them. It’s been two months.”

“That’s not very polite.”

Zayn makes a sound that’s almost a hiss, and his hands tighten in Harry’s hair, tugging like he likes. “Harry Styles. If you don’t take me to my room right now and fuck me, I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” Harry asks, as he starts to walk backwards towards the door. “What will you do to me, Zayn?”

“Something drastic,” Zayn mutters, steering him in through the door.

“But it’s a party! Maybe I want to socialize. Maybe I want to meet your friends.” Harry’s protests would probably be a lot better if his hand didn’t tighten around Zayn’s wrist to tug him along, but he can live with that. Zayn’s not any less eager.

“You can meet them after,” Zayn informs him, and then they’re at a door and Zayn’s opening it and shoving him through. He closes the door—then Harry doesn’t waste another second, before he’s got him pushed against the door, and can kiss him properly.

Kissing Zayn isn’t like kissing anyone else Harry’s ever kissed; it’s a fight and a homecoming all in one, and Harry’s been addicted since the first time, when he’d thought it would just be a one off, when Zayn was just a hot hipster kid he wanted to fuck. Now it’s so much more, and Zayn’s hands are scraping down his back, over his shoulders and his neck and his back and his ass and then back over his arms, as Harry moves from his lips down his neck, remembering the skin there.

“Fuck, Harry, I’d forgotten—”

“Forgotten what?” Harry murmurs, sucking at his neck. Zayn pretends to hate it when he does that, but he knows the breathy sound Zayn makes when he does, when he marks Zayn up—maybe it is him being a Neanderthal or whatever, but he loves it, loves Zayn bruised from his mouth, wrecked because of him. Loves it when people can see that.

“Your fucking arms,” Zayn says, and Harry’s not sure if that’s an answer but it doesn’t matter because Zayn’s grinding against him and he’s waited two months for this, he’s not going to last.

“Come here,” he says, and then he’s pulling off Zayn’s shirt, so he’s got so much more skin to remember.

“Hurry up,” Zayn orders, and tries to push away from the door, probably to get to the bed, but Harry shifts so he’s got him pinned against the door. They’re always like this, the push and the pull, but Harry wants to take his time, wants to pull Zayn apart and remember each piece. Wants Zayn fallen apart until he’s sure he does need Harry, until they both remember why Harry’s here.

“You,” Harry murmurs, sliding his hands under the hem of Zayn’s jeans, to tease. “Need to be quiet. There’s a party going on out there.”

“Well, if you’d fucked me already, I’d be out there.”

“You’re such a romantic.”

“I’ll be a romantic for round two.” Harry traces over the heart at his hip, over the words on the other side, and grinds his hips lazily into Zayn, just to watch him dig his teeth into his lip. “ _Harry_.”

“Zayn,” Harry retorts, but he’s hard too, and aching, and this would be a lot easier if they were on a bed, so he steps back, lets Zayn go. Zayn responds by pouncing on him and kissing him again, and he stumbles backwards until they’re falling onto the bed, twisting so Harry lands on top of Zayn—or he would if he didn’t catch himself.

Then he’s holding himself up over Zayn, and he just, he missed this. Missed Zayn, glaring at him with his ‘get the fuck on with it’ look, even as his fingers opened up Harry’s shirt and shoved it over his shoulders.

Harry lets him, lets him take the shirt off, trail his fingers over Harry’s skin. He shivers with it, especially as Zayn circles his nipples, at the deceptively gentle touch.

“Had plenty of time to work out at home?” Zayn asks, tracing down his stomach.

Harry laughs, and kisses the lips at his chest, because he can. “Had to keep myself pretty for you. I know you only want me for my body.”

“Why else would I?” Zayn chuckles, and Harry ignores the pang in his chest because he’s busy licking his way down Zayn’s stomach, until he can get to his jeans and open them up.

It might be weird to say, and he’d never say it to any of the guys, but he missed Zayn’s dick too, missed the feel of it in his mouth. Definitely missed the sounds Zayn makes when he has it in his mouth, even with Zayn trying to muffle himself for the sake of the party still going on.

“Okay, fuck, Harry, you need to stop before this is over too soon,” Zayn tugs at his hair, tugs him off, and Harry might be pouting a little bit but then Zayn’s throwing lube and a condom at him, and Harry’ll take that, yeah. “Now get your pants off.”

“I’ll get my pants off when I want to,” Harry retorts, even though he’d really like them off now. But instead, mainly because Zayn shouldn’t always get what he wants, he pulls at Zayn’s jeans, tugging them and his boxers off. “I’m not like you, wearing these jeans like you wanted me to drag you in here first thing.”

“Who says I didn’t?” Zayn helps by kicking the jeans off, then spreading his legs. “I know what you like.”

“I like you.” Harry presses his lips to the inside of Zayn’s thigh, and so only gets a glimpse of Zayn’s smile. “Even when you’re being impatient.”

“You’re taking forever.”

“What? You want me to go slower?” Harry teases, as he slicks up his fingers. Zayn’s watching him with dark, hungry eyes. “Do you want me to have you begging for me, baby? Begging so everyone out there will hear?”

“Harry—” Zayn doesn’t quite manage to bite off his groan as Harry circles his rim with his first finger. Harry loves it, how loud he always is, so consumed by everything he’s doing, whether it’s arguing philosophy or fucking Harry. Loves how, despite how big a personality he is, how much he fills spaces, Harry can turn him into a messy boy with desperate eyes and shaking body, fucking himself back on Harry’s fingers.

“You good?” Harry asks, as he curves three fingers to hit Zayn’s prostate, making his back arch. He better be fucking good because Harry is going to explode if he isn’t, if he can’t fuck Zayn right now. He’s pretty sure his jeans are going to explode off of him right now anyway, he’s so hard. How could he not be, with Zayn naked underneath him, all lean muscle and smooth skin, his solver hair darkened with sweat.

“Yes, Harry, come on, fuck me already.” Zayn’s voice is rough, and his hands are tight in the blankets, like he didn’t know where else to put them.

Harry pulls out his fingers, wiping them on the closest cloth he can find before he pushes off his own jeans, rips open the condom. His hands are trembling a little, but it’s always like this with Zayn, so intense it takes his breath away.

“Hurry the fuck up, come on, please,” Zayn’s voice brings him back, centers him, and he smirks. He loves it when Zayn starts to beg, when he lets himself. “Just fuck me and I’ll blow you so well later, promise, but right now hurry—”

Harry shuts him up with a kiss, and he can feel Zayn’s dick against his hip, hard and wet. “Quiet,” he warns, when he pulls away, and Zayn glares.

“Shut up.”

“You’re the one who needs to shut up,” Harry retorts, his hands under Zayn’s knees, pulling them up. Zayn wrinkles his nose up at him, and Harry won’t ever tell Zayn this, but it’s adorable.

“You like how loud I am.”

“You are pretty when you beg,” Harry agrees, then he’s pushing into Zayn, and all thoughts go out the window. It’s been two months too fucking long, and Zayn’s tight and hot and gorgeous, and he manages to wait until Zayn says it’s okay, but then he might lose time, fucking into Zayn with a hand around his dick as Zayn wraps his legs around Harry’s waist and his hands dig into Harry’s shoulder, hard enough to leave marks.

They’ve always had this, even at their worst, even furious at each other, they know how to fuck, how to move together, and it’s been months, so far too soon Harry is biting his lip to try to stave off the orgasm he can feel coming up through his muscles.

“Come on, baby,” he grunts, shifting his hips for a better angle, speeding up his hand on Zayn, and Zayn makes a quiet moan that’s almost better than his shouts, “Want to see you, come for me, Zayn—”

He sees Zayn’s orgasm coming a second before it does, and without any hands the only way to muffle him is to kiss him, swallowing down the moans as Zayn comes over Harry’s hand.

“Fuck, Harry,” Zayn mutters. He keeps a hand over Harry’s neck, as Harry starts going faster, unable to control himself. He needs this, needs Zayn, feels so good—

“Missed you,” Zayn whispers, like it’s a secret right for that moment, and pulls him down, kissing him hot and fierce, and Harry’s coming with Zayn’s name muffled by his lips.

He keeps kissing him until that feels like too much energy, and he can just lie on top of Zayn instead, mouthing idly at his neck.

“We should probably go back out,” he says at last. He never wants to move. But he’s pretty sure the host of a party shouldn’t hide in his bedroom all day.

“Soon.” Zayn’s fingers are in Harry’s hair, carding through them. He always gets sleepy after sex, sleepy and lazy and cuddly soft. “They won’t miss me.”

As if on cue, there’s a buzzing from the floor. Zayn groans, but leans over to grab his pants, then his phone out of them. He opens the text, snorts, and holds it out to Harry.

_If you’re done fucking, get back out here. You don’t get to escape hosting duties just because your boyfriend’s back._

Harry laughs, and sits up, grabbing for the closest bit of fabric that isn’t sheets they’ll hve to sleep on later to wipe his hand off on.

“No,” Zayn protests, “Don’t listen to her. We can sleep.”

“I’m working on making a good impression on Claire,” Harry explains, mopping up the come on Zayn’s stomach. And, well. Maybe there’s a part of him that wants to be out there. That wants to be out there with Zayn looking like this, well fucked, with a bruise on his neck, with Harry next to him. Maybe he wants to go out there, and if not belong, at least survive, so he and Zayn both will know he can. That he doesn’t need to be in the bedroom for this to work. “Get dressed.”

“Well you’ve officially made my shirt unwearable.” Zayn gives the shirt Harry’d just wiped his hands on a pointed look.

“Zayn.”

“Fine.” He groans and gets up, making his way the two steps to the closet as Harry pulls his jeans back on. He starts yanking things out, throwing them on the bed, and Harry rolls his eyes. He’ll never put them back now, and Harry will end up cleaning up because he doesn’t want to sleep in a mess, thank you very much. 

Zayn’s still choosing what to wear after Harry finishes getting dressed, so he starts folding behind him. He’s just finished folding Zayn’s MTV sweater when he picks up an old, worn Delta Chi sweatshirt off the floor, one he thought he’d lost. He’d been a bit pissed about it really, because it was his favorite, and also his favorite to give to Zayn when he was cold because Harry really didn’t make a secret of how much he liked seeing Zayn in his clothes, no matter how much Louis made fun of him for it.

“Zayn?”

Zayn turns around, still finishing buttoning a dark grey button down. “Yeah?”

“Did you steal my sweatshirt?”

Zayn bites his lip, his chin coming up like he does when he’s feeling vulnerable. “Yeah.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “You can have it back, though. It doesn’t smell like you anymore.”

Harry’s heart thumps in his chest, and he knows he can’t help his smile. “What?”

Zayn shrugs, but he sidles closer, giving Harry a quick look up through his eyelashes. “Told you,” he says, matter of fact. “I missed you.”

Harry lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, or a tension drains away. Zayn must see it, because he steps closer again, shakes his head. “I know I don’t, like, say it enough, but—I love you. You know that.”

“Yeah.” Harry does. It’s just hard to remember far away, but now…he does. Harry leans down, picks up his hat, which must have fallen off somewhere along the way, and puts it carefully on Zayn’s head. Zayn doesn’t even shake it off or scowl, just smiles, the soft, quiet one that comes out in these moments, when all his prickly walls drop away. “Love you too.”

“Good.” Zayn presses their lips together, quick and casual, then again, deeper. It’d be so easy just to fall into that, but—

“Nope, we have to go out there,” Harry says, detaching himself. “Claire’s going to like me if it kills me.”

“Who cares what she thinks,” Zayn’s eyes narrow, fierce. “I like you, and that’s what matters. If she’s really being nasty she can fuck off.”

Sometimes, Harry just loves Zayn so much, in all his prickly, angry sweetness. “She’s not being nasty. She’ll warm up to me. People do.” Zayn’s still not relaxing, so Harry takes Zayn’s hand, intertwines their fingers. “It’s fine, Zayn. Let’s go enjoy the party. We can see how many people can’t meet our eyes.”

“Fine.” Zayn takes a breath, then squeezes Harry’s hand. Just before he gets to the door, though, he turns back. “I was serious about that blow job, though. I’ve wanted my mouth on you for months.”

“Zayn!” Harry yelps, as Zayn laughs and opens the door, “You’re such an asshole.”

“You love me for it,” Zayn tells him, and kisses him again as he opens the door.

They’re greeted by a resounding round of applause, led by Marta, who’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, significantly more flushed than when Harry saw her last. Zayn rolls his eyes.

“Oh, fuck off, all of you,” he announces, and pulls Harry with him into the group of people. “Now get us something to drink.”

Harry leans down, so he can murmur right into Zayn’s ear. “You’ll need to hydrate,” he agrees, his hand sliding around Zayn’s waist to keep him close. “Once everyone leaves, you’re not leaving that room for days.”

Zayn swears under his breath, and Harry buries his laugh in Zayn’s neck. Who cares what anyone thinks. He fits right here. 

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Want to discuss? Comment or come chat on [ tumblr!](http://zaynandhisboys.tumblr.com/)


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